A/N: Nala's dress above.

Nala hadn't felt freer than when flying so when Rhys had told them that they would fly the last stretch to the Hawn City. She was flying in front with Rhys behind her, holding Feyre. The two were flanked by Azriel and Cassian. Mor would meet the group at the gates to the mountain base. She had left earlier to make her father aware of their arrival. 

A scream sounded behind Nala and her sister suddenly panicked, but looking over her shoulder, Nala saw that Rhys was simply being an idiot so she turned back to lead the way towards Hawn City. She felt Azriel's amusement down their bond and rolled her eyes. Men and their egos. 

Nala felt the attack before it happened and turned in the air, catching the arrows that were aimed at her back. Rhys plunged down and away with Feyre as the boys fanned out. Still in the air, Nala flew higher and pulled Cleaver from her thigh. Rhys pulled a violet shield around him and Feyre as they swerved through the arrows, Cassian pulled a red around and Azriel a cobalt blue. Nala on the other hand didn't pull on her magic. She was using her shadows to scan the forest for their enemies and she used Cleaver to defend herself from the Ash arrows coming her way. 

She was slightly aware of the boys landing below her with Feyre. Get down here and talk some sense into your sister. Rhys called up to her and she dropped in an instant, landing within Azriel's shield. 

"I've seen ash arrows," Feyre said a bit breathlessly, looking straight at Rhys and ignoring her sister. "I might recognize where they were made. And if they came from the hand of another High Lord ... I can detect that, too." If they'd come from Tarquin ... "And I can track justas well on the ground as any of you." Except for Azriel and Nala. "So, you and Cassian take the skies," Feyre said, still waiting for the rejection, the order to lock her up. "And I'll hunt on the ground with Azriel."

The wrath radiating through the snowy clearing ebbed into a frozen, too-calm rage. But Rhys said, "Cassian—I want aerial patrols on the sea borders, stationed in two-mile rings, all the way out toward Hybern. I want foot soldiers in the mountain passes along the southern border; make sure those warning fires are ready on every peak. We're not going to rely on magic." He turned to Azriel. "When you're done, warn your spies that they might be compromised, and prepare to get them out. And put fresh ones in. We keep this contained. We don't tell anyone inside that court what happened. If anyone mentions it, say it was a training exercise." He turned to Nala. "Anyone who says otherwise will be detained and disposed of." Nala nodded once, Cleaver tight in her hand and she pulled another dagger from somewhere under her dress. 

His eyes at last found Feyre's. "We've got an hour until we're expected at court. Make it count."

***

They searched, but the missed arrows had been snatched up by their attackers - and even the shadows and wind told Azriel and Nala nothing. There was no residue magic that could give Nala an inkling either. 

But it had been twice now that their enemies had known where Rhys and Feyre would be. And Nala had a bad feeling in her belly. 

Mor had found the Azriel and Feyre after twenty minutes, and Nala had broken off from them to search a wider area. She had gotten the two to explain and had then winnowed away, to spin whatever excuse would keep her horrible family from suspecting anything was amiss.

By the end of the hour, none of them had any tracks to follow or any leads as to who could have been after them. And they had no excuse to delay their meeting further. 

The Court of Nightmares lay behind a mammoth set of doors carved into the mountain itself. And from the base, the mountain rose so high that Nala couldn't see the palace Feyre had once stayed in atop it. Only snow, and rock, and birds circling above. There was no one outside—no village, no signs of life.

Nothing to indicate a whole city of people dwelled within.

But Nala did not let her curiosity or any lingering trepidation show as Mor and Feyre entered, Nala walking behind them. Rhys, Cassian, and Azriel would arrive minutes later.

There were sentries at the stone gates, clothed not in black, as one could suspect, but in gray and white—armor meant to blend into the mountain face. Mor didn't so much as look at them as she led the sisters silently inside the mountain city.

Nala felt her sister's unease at being inside the mountain and felt how it reminded her of her time with Amarantha, but she pushed it away. She couldn't let her sister's emotions cloud her judgment and focus. While she had dressed in a beautiful, tight-fitting black silk dress with golden details (see above) she made sure that the rest of her posture screamed danger and power. 

The walkway that Mor led them down was an avenue, and around them, rising high into the gloom, were buildings and spires, homes and bridges. A metropolis carved from the dark stone of the mountain itself, no inch of it left unmarked or without some lovely, hideous artwork etched into it.

Figures danced and fornicated; begged and reveled. Pillars were carved to look like curving vines of night-blooming flowers. Water ran throughout in little streams and rivers tapped from the heart of the mountain itself.

The Hewn City. A place of such terrible beauty that it was an effort to keep the wonder off Nala's face. She was very aware of her sister's trauma about places like this, but that didn't mean that Nala couldn't appreciate the place in secret. She had seen some of Hawn City when she and Azriel had tortured the Attor, but that had only been the lower levels, the prison and torture chambers, not the high-class society.

Music was already playing somewhere, and their hosts still did not come out to greet them, something that pissed Nala off, just a tiny bit as it was very disrespectful. The people they passed—only High Fae—were clothed in finery, their faces deathly pale and cold. Not one stopped them, not one smiled or bowed.

Mor ignored them all. Neither of them had said one word. Rhys had told the sisters not to—that the walls had ears here.

Mor led Feyre and Nala down the avenue toward another set of stone gates, thrown open at the base of what looked to be a castle within the mountain. The official seat of the High Lord of the Night Court.

Great, scaled black beasts were carved into those gates, all coiled together in a nest of claws and fangs, sleeping and fighting, some locked in an endless cycle of devouring each other. Between them flowed vines of jasmine and moonflowers. Nala could have sworn the beasts seemed to writhe in the silvery glow of the bobbing faelights throughout the mountain city, and with the magic that swarmed the seat, she wouldn't be surprised if it did.

Mor continued through them, a flash of color and life in this strange, coldplace.

She wore deepest red, the gossamer and gauze of her sleeveless gown clinging to her breasts and hips, while carefully placed shafts left much of her stomach and back exposed. Her hair was down in rippling waves, and cuffs of solid gold glinted around her wrists. A queen—a queen who bowed to no one, a queen who had faced them all down and triumphed. A queen who owned her body, her life, her destiny, and never apologized for it.

Feyre's clothes, which Mor had taken a moment in the pine wood to shift her into, were of a similar ilk, nearly identical to those she had been forced to wear Under the Mountain. Two shafts of fabric that hardly covered her breasts flowed to below her navel, where a belt across her hips joined them into one long shaft that draped between her legs and barely covered her backside. But unlike the chiffon and bright colors she had worn then, this one was fashioned of black, glittering fabric that sparkled with every swish of her hips.

Mor had fashioned Feyre's hair onto a crown atop her head—right behind the black diadem that had been set before it, accented with flecks of diamond that made it glisten like the night sky. She'd darkened and lengthened Feyre's eyelashes, sweeping out an elegant, vicious line of kohl at the outer corner of each. Feyre's lips she'd painted blooded.

Nala's dress while it covers much more than Feyre's somehow seemed more provocative and bolder to the elder Archeron. Her dress was a deep black that almost seemed like her shadows, the plunging v-line revealing much of her chest and stomach. The bodice features intricate gold accents, likely embroidery or embellishments, enhancing the luxurious feel of the dress. The dress is form-fitting around the torso and flows naturally downward, emphasizing an hourglass shape. A cinched waist is highlighted with metallic elements or a belt-like detail that adds structure and definition. The design includes dramatic cape-like sleeves or draped fabric extending from the shoulders, which adds a regal and dramatic effect. There are golden chain details around the shoulders and neck, acting as jewelry integrated into the dress design, further elevating the opulence of the outfit.

Into the castle beneath the mountain, the trio strode. There were more people here, milling about the endless halls, watching our every breath. Some looked like Mor, with their gold hair and beautiful faces. They even hissed at her.

Mor smirked at them. Nala kept her face as cold as stone as their gaze moved to her and Feyre. 

They at last came to a throne room of polished ebony. More of the serpents from the front gates were carved here—this time, wrapped around the countless columns supporting the onyx ceiling. It was so high up that gloom hid its finer details, but Feyre knew more had been carved there, too. Great beasts to monitor the manipulations and scheming within this room. Thethrone itself had been fashioned out of a few of them, a head snaking around either side of the back—as if they watched over the High Lord's shoulder.

A crowd had gathered around the dias. 

A golden-haired, beautiful man stepped into the girls' path toward that ebony throne, and Mor smoothly halted. Keir, Nala's shows hissed in her ear. Mor's father. 

He was clothed in black, a silver circlet atop his head. His brown eyes were like old soil as he said to her, "Where is he?" 

No greeting, no formality. He ignored the sisters wholly.

Mor shrugged. "He arrives when he wishes to." She continued on.

Her father looked at Feyre then. And she willed her face into a mask like her sisters. Disinterested. Aloof.

Her father surveyed Feyre's face, her body—and where she thought he'd sneer and ogle ... there was nothing. No emotion. Just heartless cold.

Feyre followed Mor before disgust wrecked her own icy mask.

"Do try not to stare for too long," Nala commented. drawing the steward of Hawn City's attention to her. And watched in delight as his eyes widened at seeing her golden eyes on fire and the shadow dancing around her wings. "It's rude to stare that hard a Lady." She pushes past him, making sure to push her shoulder against his with enough force to make him stagger. 

Banquet tables against the black walls were covered with fat, succulent fruits and wreaths of golden bread, interrupted with roast meats, kegs of cider and ale, and pies and tarts and little cakes of every size and variety.

It might have made Feyre's mouth water ... Were it not for the High Fae in their finery. Were it not for the fact that no one touched the food—the power and wealth lying in letting it go to waste. 

Mor went right up to the obsidian dais, Nala made sure to walk past her sister with a wink before taking her place on the first step up the dias, and Feyre halted at the foot of the steps as she took up a place beside the throne and said to the crowd in a voice that was clear and cruel and cunning, "Your High Lord approaches. He is in a foul mood, so I suggest being on your best behavior—unless you wish to be the evening entertainment."

And before the crowd could begin murmuring, they all felt it. Felt—him. 

The very rock beneath my feet seemed to tremble—a pulsing, steady beat. His footsteps. As if the mountain shuddered at each touch. Everyone in that room went still as death. As if petrified that their very breathing would draw the attention of the predator now strolling toward the dias.

Mor's shoulders were back, her chin high—feral, wanton pride at her master's arrival.

Remembering her role, Feyre kept her own chin lowered, watching beneath her brows.

Nala kept her chin high as she stared at the crowd, her shadows darting out around her in a warning. 

First Cassian and Azriel appeared in the doorway. The High Lord's general and shadowsinger—and the most powerful Illyrians in history.

They were not the males Feyre had come to know. Just like how her sister was no longer that. Here she was Rhysand's sister, the deadly whisper in his ear that could bend the world's will. Clad in battle-black that hugged their muscled forms, their armor was intricate, scaled—their shoulders impossibly broader, their faces a portrait of unfeeling brutality. They reminded Feyre, somehow, of the ebony beasts carved into the pillars they passed.

More Siphons, Feyre and Nala realized, glimmered in addition to the ones atop each oftheir hands. A Siphon in the center of their chest. One on either shoulder. One on either knee.For a moment, Feyre's knees quaked, and she understood what the camp-lords had feared in them. If one Siphon was what most Illyrians needed to handle their killing power ... Cassian and Azriel had seven each. Seven. Nala's smile became wicked, her mate was nothing but power at that moment and she wanted nothing more than to claim him before all of these lesser beings. 

The courtiers had the good sense to back away a step as Cassian and Azriel strolled through the crowd, toward the dais. Their wings gleamed, the talons at the apex sharp enough to pierce air—like they'd honed them.

Cassian's focus had gone right to Mor, Azriel indulging in all of a glance before scanning the people around them. Most shirked from the spymaster's eyes—though they trembled as they beheld Truth-Teller at his side, the Illyrian blade peeking above his left shoulder. Azriel, his face a mask of beautiful death, silently promised them all endless, unyielding torment, even the shadows shuddering in his wake. Nala knew why; knew for whom he'd gladly do it. He took his place at Nala's feet, just a step lover than her and she placed a perfectly manicured hand on his shoulder. Feyre almost shivered at the picture the two shadowsinger painted, a most terrifying picture. 

And then Rhysand appeared.

He had released the damper on his power, on who he was. His power filled the throne room, the castle, and the mountain. The world. It had no end and no beginning.

No wings. No weapons. No sign of the warrior. Nothing but the elegant, cruel High Lord the world believed him to be. His hands were in his pockets, his black tunic seeming to gobble up the light. And on his head sat a crown of stars.

No sign of the male who had been drinking on the roof; no sign of the fallen prince kneeling on his bed. The full impact of him threatened to sweep Feyre away. Nala's smile became evil as she stared at the man she had come to love as a brother, before freeing her own power to dance around his. Their magic dancing in the room, only visible to her, but the court felt it, felt the darkness threatening them. Overpowering them. 

Here—here was the most powerful High Lord ever born.

The face of dreams and nightmares.
Rhys's eyes met Feyre's briefly from across the room as he strolled between the pillars. To the throne that was his by blood and sacrifice and might. Feyre felt blood sing at the power that thrummed from him, at the sheer beauty of him.

Mor stepped off the dais, dropping to one knee in a smooth bow. Cassian and Azriel followed suit. Feyre as well. 

So did everyone in that room.
All except Nala who kept her place on the step, her back straight, and grinning at Rhys. 

The ebony floor was so polished Feyre could see her red-painted lips in it; see her expressionless face, and see that her sister still stood tall. The room was so silent Nala could hear each of Rhys's footsteps toward his inner circle.
"Well, well," he said to no one in particular. "Looks like you're all on time for once."
Raising his head as he continued kneeling, Cassian gave Rhys a half grin —the High Lord's commander incarnate, eager to do his bloodletting.

Rhys's boots stopped in Feyre's line of sight.

His fingers were icy on her chin as he lifted her face.

The entire room, still on the floor, watched. But this was the role he needed her to play. To be a distraction and novelty. Rhys's lips curved upward. "Welcome to my home, Feyre Cursebreaker."
She lowered her eyes, her kohl-thick lashes tickling her cheek. He clicked his tongue, his grip on her chin tightening. Everyone noticed the push of his fingers, the predatory angle of his head as he said, "Come with me."
A tug on Feyre's chin, and she rose to my feet. Rhys dragged his eyes over her and the girl wondered if it wasn't entirely for show as they glazed a bit.
He led her the few steps onto the dais—to the throne, only stopping to kiss Nala's hand, coursing his court to gasp in shock. She followed the two to the top of the dias and took her stand at Rhys' left side. A dangerous woman indeed. 

He sat, smiling faintly at his monstrous court. He owned every inch of the throne. These people.

And with a tug on Feyre's waist, he perched her on his lap.

The High Lord's whore. Who she'd become Under the Mountain—who the world expected her to be. The dangerous new pet that Mor's father would now seek to feel out.
Rhys's hand slid along her bare waist, the other running down her exposed thigh. Cold—his hands were so cold she almost yelped.
He must have felt the silent flinch. A heartbeat later, his hands had warmed. His thumb, curving around the inside of her thigh, gave a slow, long stroke as if to say Sorry.
Rhys indeed leaned in to bring his mouth near her ear, well aware his subjects had not yet risen from the floor, Nala being the only one to still stand, her eyes scanning the crowd along with her shadows. As if they had once done so before they were bidden, long ago, and had learned the consequences. 

Rhysand whispered to Feyre, his other hand now stroking the bare skin of my ribs in lazy, indolent circles, "Try not to let it go to your head."

Feyre knew they could all hear it. So did he.
She stared at their bowed heads, her heart hammering, but said with midnight smoothness, a tone she had copied from Nala, "What?"
Rhys's breath caressed her ear, the twin to the breath he'd brushed against it merely an hour ago in the skies. "That every male in here is contemplating what they'd be willing to give up in order to get that pretty, red mouth of yours on them."
Feyre waited for the blush, the shyness, to creep in. But she was beautiful. She was strong.She had survived—triumphed. As Mor had survived in this horrible, poisoned house ... Nala grinned at the confidence her sister was gaining. 

And so, Feyre simply smiled a bit, the first smile of her new mask. Let them see that pretty, red mouth, and her white, straight teeth.
His hand slid higher up Feyre's thigh, the proprietary touch of a male who knew he owned someone's body and soul. He'd apologized in advance for it —for this game, these roles they'd have to play.
But Feyre leaned into that touch, leaned back into his hard, warm body. She waspressed so closely against him that she could feel the deep rumble of his voice as he at last said to his court, "Rise."
As one, they did. Feyre smirked at some of them, gloriously bored and infinitely amused. Nala had gone back to her stone face. Her attention of a few whispering women in the corner, whispering about The High Lord's Whore and the shadowsinger at his left. Her head tilted slightly at the less-than-creative name they had given Feyre. 

Rhys brushed a knuckle along the inside of Feyre's knee, and every nerve in her body narrowed to that touch.
"Go play," he said to them all.
They obeyed, the crowd dispersing, music striking up from a distant corner.
"Keir," Rhys said, his voice cutting through the room like lightning on a stormy night.
It was all he needed to summon Mor's father to the foot of the dais. Keir bowed again, his face lined with icy resentment as he took in Rhys, then Feyre, then Nala —glancing once at Mor and the Illyrians. Cassian gave Keir a slow nod that told him he remembered—and would never forget—what the Steward of the Hewn City had done to his own daughter.
But it was from Azriel that Keir cringed. From the sight of Truth-Teller.
"Report," Rhys said, stroking a knuckle down Feyre's ribs. He gave a dismissive nod to Cassian, Mor, and Azriel, and the trio faded away into the crowd. Within a heartbeat, Azriel had vanished into shadows and was gone. Nala was to stay at Rhys' side reminding the people just how powerful their High Lord is. 
Keir didn't even turn.
Before Rhys, Keir was nothing more than a sullen child. Yet Nala knew Mor's father was older. Far older. The Steward clung to power; it seemed.
Rhys was power.
"Greetings, milord," Keir said, his deep voice polished smooth. "And greetings to your ... guests."
Rhys's hand flattened on Feyre's thigh as he angled his head to look at her. "She is lovely, isn't she?" Before turning his eyes to Nala. "Nala, darling, have you met my steward yet?" 

"I have brother," she drawled, making the court gasp and for Keir to stare at her in fear and wonder. they had planned it like this, to shock the entire court at once and let the rumors of her spread throughout Night Court. Nala ran her eyes up and down the man before her, tucking her wings tighter to her body, and waved a hand. "Can't say I'm too impressed." Her voice was sweet and smooth, but the words were cold, just like the look in her golden eyes. 

"Mhm," Rhysand mussed before turning back to Keir. 

"She us indeed," Keir said about Feyre, lowering his eyes. "There is little to report, milord. All has been quiet since your last visit."
"No one for me to punish?" A cat playing with his food.
"Unless you'd like for me to select someone here, no, milord."
Rhys clicked his tongue. "Pity." He again surveyed Feyre, then leaned to tug her earlobe with his teeth.

And damn her to hell, but Feyre leaned farther back as his teeth pressed down at the same moment, his thumb drifted high on the side of her thigh, sweeping across sensitive skin in a long, luxurious touch. Her body went loose and tight, and her breathing ... Cauldron damn her again, the scent of him, the citrus and the sea, the power roiling off him ... her breathing hitched a bit.

Feyre knew he noticed; knew he felt that shift in her. She almost cringed, knowing that her little sister stood right there, just a breath away from the throne. 

Rhys' fingers stilled on Feyre's leg.

Keir began mentioning people Feyre didn't know in the court, bland reports on marriages and alliances, blood-feuds, and Rhys let him talk, Feyre noticed that her little sister was listening to the older man, her flaming eyes staring the man down, no doubt to make the older man nervous.
Rhys' thumb stroked again—this time joined with his pointer finger.
A dull roaring was filling Feyre's ears, drowning out everything but that touch on the inside of her leg. The music was throbbing, ancient, wild, and people ground against each other to it.
Rhys' eyes on the Steward, he made vague nods every now and then. While his fingers continued their slow, steady stroking on Feyre's thighs, rising higher with every pass.
People were watching. Even as they drank and ate, even as some danced in small circles, people were watching. She was sitting in his lap, his very own plaything, his every touch visible to them ... and yet it might as well have been only the two of them.
Keir listed the expenses and costs of running the court, and Rhys gave another vague nod. Nala asked the man a few questions and each time the man stammered out his answer, surprised that Rhys allowed the woman to talk. Rhys' nose brushed the spot between Feyre's neck and shoulder, followed by a passing graze of his mouth.

The elder Archeron's breasts tightened, becoming full and heavy, aching—aching like what was now pooling in her core. Heat filled her face, her blood.

But Keir said at last, as if his own self-control slipped the leash, "I had heard the rumors, and I didn't quite believe them." His gaze settled on Feyre, on her breasts, peaked through the folds of her dress, of her legs, spread wider than they'd been minutes before, and Rhys's hand in dangerous territory. "But it seems true: Tamlin's pet is now owned by another master."

"You should see how I make her beg," Rhys murmured, nudging Feyre neck with his nose.

Keir clasped his hands behind his back. "I assume you brought her to make a statement."

"You know everything I do is a statement."

"Of course. This one, it seems, you enjoy putting in cobwebs and crowns."

Rhys's hand paused, Nala's hands began to burn, and Feyre sat straighter at the tone, the disgust. And Feyre said to Keir in a voice that might as well have belonged to her sister, "Perhaps I'll put a leash on you."

Rhys's approval tapped against Feyre's mental shield, the hand at her ribs now making lazy circles. "She does enjoy playing," he mused onto her shoulder. He jerked his chin toward the Steward. "Get her some wine."Pure command. No politeness.

Keir stiffened but strode off.

Rhys didn't dare break from his mask, but the light kiss he pressed beneath Feyre's ear told her enough. Apology and gratitude—and more apologies. He didn't like this any more than Feyre did. And yet to get what they needed, to buy Azriel time ... He'd do it. And so would Feyre. The only one in the circle that seemed to be enjoying herself was Nala. 

The woman was standing at Rhys' side, looking every bit like she belonged here. Her face was cold, and calculating. "I'll go meet our people, dear brother." She spoke in that dark honey-coated tone of voice that made every person around her shiver in fear. Rhysand simply waved her off with a small cold smile on his lips. 

A new song began, like dripping honey—and edged into a swift-moving wind, punctuated with driving relentless drums. Nala made her way through the crowd with ease, most people moved out of her way as she strolled to where the wine and food were laid out. She danced around the room, her movement as gentle and smooth as a dancer, she listened in on the conversations around her as she made small talk with the nobles there, her shadows giving her their names and any blackmail they could find. 

A few more minutes went by before she felt him enter the room again. I have it, he told her down the bond and she glided towards him, squeezing Mor's hand as she passed, the signal to pull back. Nala slid up to the male shadowsinger, running a proprietary hand over his shoulder, his chest, as she circled to look at his face. Az's scar-mottled hand wrapped around her waist, giving the rest of their circle the confirmation they needed that he had the orb. She offered him a dangerous grin, leaving into his strong body and biting his neck lightly, just to fuel the rumors about her before sauntering into the crowd again, making her way to the dais. Dazzling, distracting, leaving the court thinking that the male shadowsinger has been there the whole time. 

Azriel just stared after Mor, distant and bored. And Feyre wonders how he does it when her sister looks like she does. 

Rhys crooked a finger to Keir, who, scowling a bit in Nala's direction, most likely not liking that a woman who was claiming to be Rhys' sister was fooling around with an Illyrian, stumbled forward with Feyre's wine. He'd barely reached the dais before Rhys's power took it from him, floating the goblet to them. Rhys set it on the ground beside the throne, a stupid task he'd thought up for the Steward to remind him of his powerlessness, that this throne was nothis.
"Should I test it for poison?" Rhys drawled even as he said into Feyre's mind, Cassian's waiting. Go.
Rhys had the same, sex-addled expression on his perfect face—but his eyes ... Feyre couldn't read the shadows in his eyes.
Maybe—maybe for all our teasing, after Amarantha, he didn't want to be touched by a woman like that. Didn't even enjoy being wanted like that. I had been tortured and tormented, but his horrors had gone to another level. Feyre thought. 
"No, milord," Keir groveled. "I would never dare harm you." Another distraction is this conversation. Feyre took that as her cue to stride to Cassian who was snarling by a pillar at anyone who came too close.

Feyre felt the eyes of the court slide to her, felt them all sniff delicately at what was so clearly written over her body. But as she passed Keir, even with the High Lord at her back, he hissed almost too quietly to hear, "You'll get what's coming to you, whore."

Night exploded into the room.

People cried out. And when the darkness cleared, Keir was on his knees.

Rhys still lounged on the throne. His face was a mask of frozen rage.

The music stopped. Mor appeared at the edge of the crowd—her own features set in smug satisfaction. She moved closer to Cassian as well.

Nala and Azriel were suddenly behind their High Lord, their shadow running around the room.

"Apologize," Rhys said. Feyre's heart thundered at the pure command, the utter wrath.

Keir's neck muscles strained, and sweat broke out on his lip.

"I said," Rhys intoned with such horrible calm, "apologize."

The Steward groaned. And when another heartbeat passed— Bone cracked. Keir screamed.

And Feyre watched—she watched as his arm fractured into not two, not three, but four different pieces, the skin going taut and loose in all the wrong spots —

Another crack. His elbow disintegrated. Feyre's stomach churned. Nala grinned at Rhys' side, sliding forward slightly, her hands burning brightly in the dark. 

Keir began sobbing, the tears half from rage, judging by the hatred in his eyes as he looked at me, then Rhys. But his lips formed the words, I'm sorry.

The bones of his other arm splintered, and it was an effort not to cringe.

Rhys smiled as Keir screamed again and said to the room, "Should I killhim for it?"

"Please do," Nala said, licking her lips slightly as she sat at the arm of this throne. "I would love his skull in my room. It would make a wonderful addition to my collection." A shiver ran down the spines of everyone in the room. She is a bit too good at this. Feyre thought as she looked at her little sister. Azriel simply looked at the youngest Archeron with delight and lust in his eyes. He just might be the only one here not afraid of Nala's darker side. 

Rhys chuckled, smiling darkly up at Nala. 

He said to his Steward, "When you wake up, you're not to see a healer. If I hear that you do ... " Another crack—Keir's pinkie finger went saggy. The male shrieked. The heat that had boiled Feyre's blood turned to ice. "If I hear that you do, I'll carve you into pieces and bury them where no one can stand a chance of putting you together again. And your skull will be the centerpiece on my sisters' shelves."

Keir's eyes widened in true terror now. Then, as if an invisible hand had struck the consciousness from him, he collapsed to the floor.

Rhys said to no one in particular, "Dump him in his room."

Two males who looked like they could be Mor's cousins or brothers rushed forward, gathering up the Steward. Mor watched them, sneering faintly—though her skin was pale.

He'd wake up. That's what Rhys had said.

Feyre made herself keep walking, channeling her inner Nala, as Rhys summoned another courtier to give him reports on whatever trivial matters.

But Feyre's attention remained on the throne behind her, even as she slipped beside Cassian, daring the court to approach, to play with her. None did.

And for the long hour afterward, her focus half remained on the High Lord whose hands and mouth and body had suddenly made her feel awake —burning. It didn't make her forget, didn't make her obliterate hurts or grievances, it just made her... alive. Made her feel as if she'd been asleep for a year, slumbering inside a glass coffin, and he had just shattered through itand shook her to consciousness.

The High Lord whose power had not scared her. Whose wrath did not wreck her.

And now—now she didn't know where that put her.Knee-deep in trouble seemed like a good place to start.

Nala grinned at her with a smile that told Feyre that her little sister, again, knew far more than she ever should. 

And honestly, as the younger Archeron sat there on the armchair of Rhys' throne she looked nothing like Nala Archeron anymore. No, she looked like a daughter of Night. As a princess of the Night Court. She looked like she truly could be Rhys' younger sister instead of Feyre's. 

The thought should have saddened Feyre, but instead, she only felt joy as Nala finally could be who she truly was. And be with the once she truly loved.